


triangulation

by earlylight



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Spoilers through to s03e01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-16 19:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12349584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/earlylight
Summary: It’s been surprisingly lonely, now he’s made the play, taken a guillotine and severed their connection. Isolation is a powerful thing – drove Elliot to morphine, drove Elliot tohim, but. Elliot is a fieldmouse on a hot wire, whereas he’s sharpened his teeth on the coals and come up gnashing for more. Focused, concentrated rage is more powerful than anything dreamt up by Big Pharma, and that’s why, finally, he’s in control.Mr. Robot checks the board, assesses the players, and makes a move. Set after the beginning of S3.





	triangulation

_Alekhine’s gun._

It breaks the surface of his tired mind clear as day, a knife cut across the horizon. For a moment (only a moment) there’s a shot of adrenalin – _is that Elliot? Is he here?_ – but Tyrell shifts in his sleep, huffing warm breath across the back of his neck, and it passes.  

It takes a moment to remember – Alekhine’s gun, a chess play, lining up two rooks in front of the Queen and then sweeping the board. Interesting concept, if he could figure out why the fuck it’s popped into his head. He’s been getting these, lately – these ‘blue sky’ thoughts – adware running amok in his mind. Artifacts of Elliot, a missive between the cracks in the border wall, maybe? Or is this what it means to truly be alone with your thoughts? It’s been surprisingly lonely, now he’s made the play, taken a guillotine and severed their connection. Isolation is a powerful thing – drove Elliot to morphine, drove Elliot to _him,_ but. Elliot is a fieldmouse on a hot wire, whereas he’s sharpened his teeth on the coals and come up gnashing for more. Focused, concentrated rage is more powerful than anything dreamt up by Big Pharma, and that’s why, finally, he’s in control.

Alekhine’s gun. Maybe it stems from frustration that they can’t move faster, can’t be more aggressive with their approach. He’s not known to be a patient guy. Stage 2 kept underground – literally – hiding away from his alter, who apparently has decided now is the time to develop some sort of fucking moral compass. He still feels a slow burn of anger at Elliot worming his way into the driver's seat one evening and closing the backdoor - fuck, if the Dark Army hadn't been there to intercept him, who knows what kind of damage he could've wrought. Him and Elliot, two sides of the same silver coin, spinning wildly on its edge. And now Irving's been set off-kilter, giving him a sharp eye - got to be a good boy, keep minding his P's and Q's, so he can write it off as an anomaly, just the odd misfire from an otherwise well-oiled machine. Elliot thrashing around, trying to meddle in things he doesn't understand, is going to get all of them fucking killed. At least Irving left after the first stint, evidently happy to leave the situation to Angela to handle while he went and did whatever the fuck he does for Whiterose while he’s not eating an assload of barbecue. _Red Wheelbarrow BBQ_ , about as subtle as a brick through the skull, though Elliot probably thinks the Dark Army named it after his stupid notebook.

Speaking of Tyrell, make-up sex is not a particular favorite – tends to be weepy – but a necessity to keep him on track after the debacle Elliot put them through. To the man’s credit, he didn’t cry, but did spend an inordinate amount of time on foreplay – as though a week and change meant you couldn’t remember the ins and outs of a body you've been fucked by for months – and, coupled with Tyrell’s concern about the bullethole in his stomach, lead to a far more slow and intimate affair than he was particularly comfortable with. Still, probably not the worst idea to play it safe, not to aggravate the wound – there’s a tightness in his chest and a feverish warmth that may have been dredged up thanks to the strain of even the gentlest puppy fuck he’s ever had, and so maybe he owes some begrudging thanks to Tyrell for taking it slow.

He entertains the idea for about half a second. Yeah, like that would happen. But still, nice, for a moment, to lie back into Tyrell’s chest, play house – idly envision a future, where, when they—

“You can’t fall asleep,” Angela says. He cracks an eye open, clocks her perched in a chair, texting, serene and unbothered in the cold light of her smartphone. He hadn’t heard her come back in – shit. Maybe he really had been asleep.

Thank fuck for Angela, with her competence and iron-forged will. He never thought much of her before, dismissed her, was sure she was just a pawn caught up in the gears of larger machinations, certain to break, but instead she's become diamantine. It's hard not to be impressed with her transformation, to respect that kind of stone-cold tenacity, and he can even admit that she's probably better at keeping Elliot on course than he could ever manage. But her new-found power also makes her dangerous - it was surprising to find out that she was aware of his and Tyrell’s… arrangement. It was a little slip, on her part, not to react when Tyrell – in a far bigger slip, that beautiful idiot – cupped his cheek, all soft and tender, in her line of sight, as they made to leave that night. Lucky Irving was in the bathroom, because he sure as hell doesn’t want to lay his cards all out on the goddamn table, give Whiterose another hook to stick in him. Have to step carefully to keep all his balls in the air. But when Angela said nothing, and continued to say nothing, he took note. And then, when pressed—

_“Tyrell called me after you were shot. It was clear he was invested.”_

What did he say? _“That’s none of your business.”_ And what did _you_ say? _“Nothing. We’re done talking about this.”_

If she’s still keeping his secret, there’s a chance it can be weaponized. But to his advantage or his downfall is the million dollar question.

“I have it under control,” he replies eventually, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. “He won’t resurface tonight.” Tyrell mumbles something, his arms drawing tighter briefly before falling lax.

“You overestimate your capabilities,” Angela says. “If Elliot wakes up here, discovers what we’re doing, it’s all over. Let alone when he turns over and sees Tyrell. What do you think will be the first thing on his mind when he finds himself in someone else’s bed, naked, with no memory of getting there?”

That would definitely not be… great. No matter his gripes with Elliot, there are some lines that should never be crossed. “Fair point,” he mutters, forcing his eyes back open. “Alright. Let’s hit the road.”

He extricates himself from Tyrell’s grip, slowly weaseling his way off the shitty mattress and digs around on the floor for his pants. Angela looks up, and he sees her run through the process, that automated social script that reads _if [“person” = “naked”] then echo “avert eyes”_ but her gaze – catches – just a few moments too long – and then she notices him watching her, and quickly looks away.

Now _this_ is interesting. Fuck, he should’ve thought of it sooner. He’s good at reading people, finding out what they want and exploiting it – in the end, whether they can admit it to themselves or not, everybody wants something, or _someone,_ and everyone has their price. It’s how he brought Tyrell under his thumb, kept him doe-eyed and docile, a silver bullet shot true towards their endgame. Angela may look at him and see Elliot, but she doesn’t see _Elliot_. Sure, he hasn’t known Angela for over a decade, but that’s not detrimental to his read of her in the slightest – in fact, it gives him invaluable objectivity. And the Angela he’s seen through Elliot’s eyes values confidence, drive, and ambition.

She wants someone to meet her eye to eye.

He takes his time, lacing up his shoes neatly, and then goes to retrieve his shirt. “See something you like?” he asks, picking it up in one fluid motion as he walks towards her.

“Excuse me?” Angela asks, frowning at up him.

“Don’t bullshit with me,” he replies, leaning against the wall next to her chair. “I’m not _him_ , remember. I’m not going to dance around a situation – I call it like it is. You want me, in whatever capacity, we can work something out that is beneficial to the both of us. Consider it an extension of our current working relationship. No strings attached, no feelings involved, that I can guarantee.”

Her gaze closes off, and she abruptly gets out of the chair, sliding her phone back into her blazer pocket. “Let me remind you that we are business partners,” she says, low and dangerous. “Nothing more, nothing less. Our relationship is transactional. Don’t overstep it – this is your first and only warning.”

“Isn’t everything transactional?” he points out, keeping posture unthreatening but his gaze steady. It’s a risky play, putting both him and Tyrell in the line of fire, so he’s got to tread carefully here. “No, think about it. We’re human beings, we’re inherently selfish, if you’re going to invest your time in someone, it’s always gotta pay off, somehow. Maybe you make a friend who works at a gym, and in the back of your mind you know you’ll get a discount to that CrossFit class you’ve been eyeing up. Maybe you make a move on a guy because he’s got a trust fund you can’t wait to dip your hands into. Or, maybe you meet someone who makes you laugh, and you keep them around to become your own natural drug supply, keeping those dopamine levels on a high. Once you admit that to yourself, that we’re all just feeding off each other, one big circle-jerk of symbiotic parasites, then the choice becomes easy. Why not take what you want, and keep what you need, knowing the other person is doing the same thing?”

She watches him, stiff and silent, and he shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “Just a thought,” he says, and goes to retrieve his jacket. But now the seed is there, and it's either gonna be fruitful or wrap its roots around his neck.

Life is easier in the binary. When you break it down, when you clear away all the grey, you’re only ever a one or a zero. Yes/no. Go ahead, or go back. Fuck, or be fucked. He’ll win or he’ll have scorched earth, and nothing between.

“Where’re y’goin’,” Tyrell mutters as he kneels down by the mattress, waking him with a gentle shake, a sliver of those baby blues cutting through long lashes. “Stay. Please, stay?”

“Heading out, got work in the morning,” he replies. “And I sure won’t fit your shirt and slacks, will I, champ?”

Tyrell makes an unhappy noise, and so he dips down – slow, keeping an eye slitted, making sure Angela is watching – and kisses him. Tyrell leans into it, a bite mark stretching across the long column of his throat - just below where a starched collar would sit - and he keeps him there, waiting, until Angela looks away. He breaks the kiss, can’t help his mouth curling into a smile at the edges, which Tyrell sleepily echoes. Ugh, what is he getting - fond? Gotta nip that in the bud. Still. In the end, it’s the little victories along the way that make the long game worth playing.

And then he realizes, with a bright rush of clarity – Alekhine’s gun. Two rooks positioned in front of the Queen to sweep the board. The beginning of the end, a final assault towards total destruction of an opponent. His smile widens.

_Gonna get both the kids in the divorce._

Angela gives him a look. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he replies, the code beginning to write itself in his head. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love!!! S3 Angela and I've never been so happy to be wrong about a character - whether she's playing double agent or sincerely wants to watch the world burn, I'm so on board and excited to see what comes next, especially for Mr. Robot and Angela: partners in crime (literally) :P
> 
> (P. S. If you're wondering why I never once used Mr. Robot's name in the text, well - have you noticed that Elliot's the only one who has ever called him that, and he's never used a name to refer to himself on the show? I wonder if he ever will.)


End file.
